


Albatross

by lea_hazel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Casual Sex, Doppelganger, F/F, Omens & Portents, Separations, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lea_hazel/pseuds/lea_hazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabela doesn't believe in omens. Set between act 2 and 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Albatross

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squiggyrag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiggyrag/gifts).



> See also the associated fanmix, [Cut & Run](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1044459).

“I've decided I like you.”

She stirred reluctantly from her lazy post-coital repose, threw off the quilt and brushed her hair from her eyes. “What was that, sweet thing?”

The girl was sitting up against the headboard, naked, her arms curled around her knees. She balanced her chin on them, tilting her head and smiling her strange smile. “I like you,” she said again. “You don't mess around. You know what you want, and you know how to get it.”

“That's me,” said Isabela, flopping onto her back. “Always ready to take what I want, no matter the cost.”

She laughed. “You make it sound so ominous,” she said. “What's wrong with taking care of yourself? No one else will. You look like a woman who can hold her own.”

Isabela eyed her critically. Black hair flopped over her pale forehead in clumps, framing pitch dark eyes and a mouth with an ever-present quirk. She was starting to wonder if it was all in her head, and that was a very unpleasant thought. “Is that why you asked me up here?”

“Does it bother you?” she asked, and when she smiled her eyes formed dark little crescents shining over her face.

“Not at all, it's just an interesting way to pick a dancing partner.”

“You're my kind of people.”

She unfurled and stretched out her legs, all long muscles and just a faint golden tan, faded over long winter months. Underneath the crust, her feet and belly and breasts were white as the pulp of Orlesian bread. A knife-wound scar was livid across her ribs, stopping just short of her heart. Maybe she was right; she definitely _looked_ like Isabela's kind of people. Her usual kind of people, that is.

When she rolled over to lie on her side, her movements were fluid and effortless. “If I might ask,” she said, “what made you agree to come up with me? You don't even know my name.”

Isabela laughed heartily. “Sweet thing, this is far from the first time I've bedded someone without knowing their name.”

“Delightful,” said the stranger, “but you didn't answer my question.”

“You noticed that, did you?” Isabela scratched the back of her neck. “I, uh—“

“Well, you don't have to answer if you'd rather not,” she said, and her bright face dimmed.

“You remind me of someone I know—knew,” said Isabela. “You don't judge, and you're fun to be around. That's all I'm looking for right now, a little fun.”

“We could have a little _more_ fun, if you'd like,” she said. “Unless I wore you out, that is.”

“Not by a long shot,” said Isabela.

“Good,” she said. “I wouldn't mind knowing to whom I owe the pleasure, though.”

“Isabela,” she said, and didn't bother to add the rest. It didn't mean much of anything anymore.

“Molly,” said the girl.

“That's a funny name,” said Isabela carelessly, stretching out to stroke Molly's pale back and southwards to her hips. “Southern, isn't it?”

Molly hummed, a soft pleased sound, and her eyelids drooped. “Fereldan, actually.”

“Lots of those in Cumberland these days,” she said idly. “Come over during the Blight with everyone else, did you?”

She snorted. “Do I look like a refugee to you?” she said. “I left Ferelden years ago. There was nothing to see there but mud and dog shit. I've been all over, but I got here by way of the Imperial Highway. I was in Montfort, and the Hunterhorn Mountains, and in the Anderfels before that. Miserable country. I wouldn't go back there for my weight in gold.”

“Can't say that I took to the place myself,” said Isabela, suppressing a shudder, “and I've gotten around a fair bit, myself. I mostly kept to the coast cities, though.”

“I thought you had that look about you,” said Molly thoughtfully, “like you came onto solid land just long enough to get supplied. Where's your ship? Maybe I know your captain. I must have sailed on every merchant ship in the Waking Sea, at one point or another.”

Isabela laughed gracelessly. “We could keep exchanging travel stories, sweet thing, or we could agree that we've both seen everything there is to see, and get back to the fun part.”

It was almost impressive how quickly Molly got the jump on her. Before she knew it, Isabela was on her back with her hands pinned above her head, and Molly straddling her hips with a triumphant smile. Not that she was complaining. Either way, the end result was the same. But it had been a while since she'd let someone maneuver her like that. Not a lot of people could get away with it. Maybe she was in a giving mood for a change, or maybe she was distracted by whatever it was Molly was doing with her tongue.

“Get dressed,” Molly said, immediately after.

Isabela cast her a hazy-eyed look. “You and I are more alike than I thought.”

Molly snorted. “I have somewhere to be,” she said. “You're lovely and all, but I'm not leaving you alone in my room.”

She stretched out, looking around for her boots. “Well, then, you're wiser than most.”

While she laced herself back up, Isabela watched Molly with one eye. Most of her gear was leather and chain, and there was a bow and quiver hanging on a pair of hooks by the door. Definitely better armed than a Fereldan refugee, or most of them, at least. Everything was top-notch, the best that could be had for gold or steel. She wondered if Molly had a family fortune to draw on, or if she, like Isabela, spent every coin as soon as it came into her hands. But you could only stare at someone for so long before you were noticed, and Molly had a rogue's instincts.

She ambled over to lean too-casually against the wardrobe. “What's with the sudden scrutiny?”

“I'm jealous of your armor,” Isabela said evasively.

“Of course,” said Molly. “Why wouldn't you be?”

Isabela relaxed and went back to getting dressed. Except...

“So, who is this girl I remind you of?”

“Girl?” said Isabela.

“Oh, Maker,” said Molly, “I do hope it's a girl and not a dwarf or something.”

“I could probably think of a dwarf you remind me of, if you like,” said Isabela, standing and turning her back on the girl under the pretext of fishing her belt out from under the bed.

“But it's a girl?”

“Yes,” said Isabela. “It's a girl.”

“She must be a lot of fun, then. Maybe I'll meet her, someday.”

Isabela turned back around and saw the grin fade quickly from Molly's face, like liquor draining out of a tipped-over bottle.

She wrung her hands. “What's wrong? Did I stick my foot in my mouth again? Is she dead, or something?”

“I don't know,” said Isabela frankly.

Molly looked puzzled. “What do you mean, you don't know?”

“I haven't seen her in more than a year,” said Isabela, busying herself with the straps of her dagger sheaths. “Things were... messy... when I left. Anything could have happened.”

Molly looked relieved.

Isabela smiled faintly. “You should go. You have places to be, and I don't want to risk the evil eye. We sailors are superstitious like that.”

Molly nodded briskly, scooping up her weapons and leading them both out into the inn's dim, smoky corridor. She locked the door behind her and did some sleight of hand to disappear the key without Isabela seeing where she hid it. She suspected it went down the collar of her corselet, if only because that's where she would have put it. But Isabela never kept anything long enough to be worth stealing from, so she never bothered with locking doors behind her.

They walked in companionable silence through a room that smelled strongly of sweat and stale beer. Outside the gloom was fading into night. Whores were standing in some open windows, decked in cheap trinkets and half-hidden behind flimsy curtains like veils. Honest men would be rushing to bolt their doors behind them. The night streets belonged to the dishonest and the disreputable. And those who tried to stop them, not that the Cumberland City Guard was anything to be worried about. No, the streets of Cumberland were safe enough for those who wanted to make them unsafe, provided they weren't complete fools.

“I'll be heading down to the dockside,” said Isabela when they reached a particular corner that she remembered by the clump of spindleweed that grew sprawlingly over a crumbling bit of stone wall. She stopped and spat over her shoulder.

“Another superstition?” asked Molly, smiling puckishly.

“Don't turn your nose up,” said Isabela. “Everyone knows that Spindleweed grows for the sorrowful, not just sailors.”

“All right,” said Molly, “but the thing you said before, what was it? Evil eye?”

“Where I come from, they say that spirits take the form of humans to warn them of their fate. Meeting your own double is supposed to be an omen of death.”

“Why would spirits want to warn you about your own death if it's inevitable?” said Molly.

Isabela shrugged. “Who knows why spirits do anything?”

“So you think I'm an omen of ill-luck? Is that it?” asked Molly.

“Not unless you meet a woman who looks exactly like you,” said Isabela. “That's how the story goes.”

“And if I meet my double, one of us will die,” said Molly skeptically. “Surely you can't believe this.”

She shrugged again. “It makes a good story, though, doesn't it? In the end, that's all that matters.”

Molly shook her head. “I don't know what to make of you.”

“That's just how I like it,” said Isabela.

“I figured,” said Molly. She raised her hand in mock salute and added, “Perhaps we'll meet again.”

“Maybe,” said Isabela.

She watched briefly as Molly bounded away with a light step, off to look for some sort of trouble to get herself into. Some people just couldn't keep themselves out of danger, she thought as she made her way down the winding streets to the docks. Well, she supposed she was one of those people, too, and always had been. It kept life interesting, and you met the most fascinating people when you were trying not to die.

Isabela didn't really believe in omens. Still, it was hard to shake the ill feeling deep in her gut. Some people were nothing but trouble. They didn't need meddling spirits to be their harbingers of ruination. It was just in their nature. And really, the resemblance was uncanny, except for the eyes and the hair. The eyes, really. Her hair was shorter when they met, she didn't grow it out until she got rich and started moving up in the world. Long, silky black locks like a princess from a children's tale, not quite long enough to wind up in a knot like a proper lady, but maybe it had grown more since last she saw her. She wasn't just Lady Hawke anymore, after all; she was _Champion_.

It was best to keep her ill-luck away.  


End file.
